


The Way Back

by Skittles_Walters



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Elim Garak, Post-Episode: s05e24 Empok Nor, Unrequited Love, psychotropic compounds can really put a crimp on things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27964535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittles_Walters/pseuds/Skittles_Walters
Summary: Garak remembers little of the runabout home: their sedative spilling through his blood so he’s docile, bright lights, and the bite of restraints at wrist and ankle. His fingers itch. He has not felt so alive in years.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44





	The Way Back

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between O'Brien knocking Garak out on Empok Nor and going to see him in the infirmary after Bashir's neutralised the drugs in his system.

Garak remembers little of the runabout: their sedative spilling through his blood so he’s docile, bright lights, and the bite of restraints at wrist and ankle. Mostly it’s the stink of them: cloying terror clinging to the Ferengi; stale perspiration on the human; the old soldier grown soft. Waiting, his fingers flex against the bonds until one of them comes to put him under again. He has not felt so alive in years.

The air on the station had been recycled and musty with environmental systems long offline, yet even in the unfamiliar suit something there had cried _home_. And at last, at long last, _bold strategy and decisive action_ : the hot whine of the disruptor, breath accelerated and heart picking up and through it all his hands had never been steadier. He’d been _back_.

His fingers itch.

Later, he could not tell how long, the hum of a transporter.

“Psychotropic compound. We’ll have to neutralise it. Let’s start at 30ccs.” A pause, another sting. Something floods through his system that makes his vision swim. There’s icy air as they tug at his clothing and he feels every cheap, raised stitch of the awful hospital gown.

Cool, sure fingers linger at his temple. “I’ll, ah, get that blood off his face.” A cloth dabs. His hands are free.

His hands are _free…_

When he strikes there is a delicious cry, then a pulse thrumming against his fingertips as he squeezes and squeezes, waiting for the second where they fall limp at last, and he’ll keep his hold a minute longer to make it absolutely sure. _Death to all_. They drag him off long before that point: he hears the pops as fingers break and his frustrated hiss at being thwarted, but there’s the satisfied knowledge that it took at least three of them to do it.

A wailing osteo-regenerator and the jagged ache as his bones knit together. He’d been seeing again the holes he punched into the boy’s chest, delighting in the whistling of the punctured lung. As the room comes into sharper focus, the image is replaced by Elsa Amaro, with her open face and thin chestnut braid that reaches almost to her waist.

.:I:.

“Garak? How do you feel?”

When he opens his eyes Julian Bashir stands by the door in a clean, unrumpled uniform, and no bruises peep from his undershirt. There is a long instant where Garak lets himself believe that it might have been Nurse Jabara. “A good deal more like myself, thank you, doctor.” Then he lifts his head to look his physician in the eye, and Bashir looks away.

Yes, his neck had been as soft and fragile as Garak had always imagined.

“How much do you remember?”

“Everything.”

Bashir swallows.

_It’s your move, doctor_.

“We neutralized the psychotropics in your system. There should be no more – ah – residual effects.” Perhaps his voice is a little hoarse. “There will have to be an inquest.” Garak only nods, not trusting himself to speak, and Bashir misinterprets, a flush coming to his face. “I’ve already prepared my report. They’ll understand – you weren’t in control of your actions.”

“My dear doctor, I’ve no concerns on that score. There were extenuating circumstances,” he says flatly. “Please, let me say that –”

Julian Bashir has turned his back.

“I’ve repaired your ribs and hand. A few days and you should be back to normal.” He pauses, sighs. “It wasn’t your fault,” he mutters, and he’s left the room.

Garak looks after him, thinking, if he had ever said something: when they returned from the prison camp, after that dreadful business at the Founders’ homeworld, why, when he had seen that eager, naïve face in the replimat for the first time. Could it ever have led to something more?

The infirmary is, as always, too bright and exposed, and his head aches sharply, but there’ll be no cool hand in his to steady him this time.

**Author's Note:**

> Quite short, but hope it's sweet.
> 
> With thanks to Arati_Mhevet and her sidekick for reading and the suggestions. Incidentally, they're also to blame for starting this whole obsession in the first place.


End file.
